


You doing okay, Cowboy?

by dickgrysvn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Extended Scene, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Solo has ptsd, The second is the effects that has on him later, Torture, gaby is precious baby, illya is a big soft Russian mama bear, leave your toxic masculinity at the door, napoleon is a smol bean who needs hugs, no sleep we die, platonic physical affection, the first chapter is further exploring solo getting tortured by rudi, these babies just need all the hugs, you can pry these three and their friendship from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29260791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickgrysvn/pseuds/dickgrysvn
Summary: Solo has never felt such pain in his life. Sure, he was a soldier, subject to brutal training and the occasional bullet wound. He was a spy, on rare occasions captured and tortured for information– a rag thrown over his face and a bit of water dumped over his head, or a few solid punches to the gut. But there was always a purpose for that pain. Growth for him, or power for them. But this? This was pain for the sake of pain, and he’d never felt anything like it. This was pain purely for the sick fascination of a man who wanted to know how he would react to it. There was no scientific purpose, no search for useful knowledge.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	1. Napoleon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [altschmerzes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altschmerzes/gifts).



> Hi hello welcome back to me writing a fic for yet another fandom instead of working on a million wips I’ve got. Anyway, I needed more from that torture scene in the film, and then I realized that Solo would be pretty messed up from it for a while afterwards, and therefore this was born. Please forgive any mistakes, it’s nearly 5am when I’ve finished this. I hope you like it

Solo has never felt such pain in his life. Sure, he was a soldier, subject to brutal training and the occasional bullet wound. He was a spy, on rare occasions captured and tortured for information– a rag thrown over his face and a bit of water dumped over his head, or a few solid punches to the gut. But there was always a purpose for that pain. Growth for him, or power for them. But this? This was pain for the sake of pain, and he’d never felt anything like it. This was pain purely for the sick fascination of a man who wanted to know how he would react to it. There was no scientific purpose, no search for useful knowledge. 

The first shock had been, well, a shock. Not only was it sudden and unexpected, but it was entirely  _ unknown.  _ Solo had never faced electrocution before, and he certainly hadn’t known it was what was coming. So that first jolt took his breath away in more ways than one. Frozen as he was, the excruciating currents locking his muscles, he was dimly aware of Victoria’s delighted expression as the power kicked on. It made him sick, and if he hadn’t been frozen in a world of pain he might have actually  _ been _ sick. He wasn’t sure how long it went on. Time had ceased to exist, and his world consisted of nothing but  _ pain pain pain _ , energy burning through his every nerve. 

And then it was gone as abruptly as it began, and he had attempted to ride out the wave of fire in his frayed nerves with as much dignity as he could. He felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe in ages, and his chest heaved as he fought to keep the nausea down. Victoria leaned in close, whispering in a way Napoleon would have found appealing before, and it made his stomach turn violently. He ached to smash his head into hers, take away her power over him and send her reeling, but the band around his head kept him uncomfortably stationary. So instead he closed his eyes and grit his teeth, chest heaving from the exertion of so much forced stimulation through his nerves. It felt like everything in him was on fire, and Solo had briefly let himself wonder if he had the nerves left to take another round. Because there would surely be another, if Victoria’s last words and the look on Rudi’s face were any indications.

And another there was, indeed. Rudi had waxed poetic, trying to claim some sort of scientific method to his madness, but Solo knew the only true reason for this excruciating fire inside of him was the man’s own insane pleasure. Surely the giddy look on his face as Solo strained against the current and the restraints, his body being ripped apart by the very nerves his brain relied on, was indication enough. The sheer excitement on his face every time his foot depressed the lever, every time Solo’s muscles locked with pain, told him everything. Rudi stopped just long enough to let him breathe, and Solo almost wished he hadn’t. The aftermath from the second round was far worse than the first. The instant release of his muscles was agonizing. After being tense for so long, relaxing them felt like a million daggers through his skin. He heaved a breath just in time to register the faint click of the lever again. He hadn’t been prepared for it this time. The single light bulb spinning slowly around his head had cast just enough shadow to mask the slight movement Rudi made, and there was no courtesy question for him now. The jolt came fast and unexpected, and Solo’s world had turned to pain yet again. 

He knows he’d be screaming if his muscles weren’t seizing with each click of the switch. The electricity surges through him with such brutality it strips him of every bit of autonomy he possesses. It steals the breath from his lungs, robs him of his capacity to think or move or feel anything but white-hot fire burning through his very blood. He’s almost glad he can’t move or scream, he doesn’t want to give Rudi the satisfaction, but the third, unexpected shock had sent his teeth straight through his tongue, and he can do nothing but taste the blood pooling in his mouth. This one seems to last an eternity. Time simply slips away, and Solo loses track of it entirely. It could be hours or simply minutes that he shakes, locked in this horrible limbo. And then just as abruptly as it began, it’s over. He can’t help the strangled cry that escapes him as his muscles are freed, and he nearly chokes on the blood in his mouth. It fills his senses with the taste and smell of iron, and he realizes he can feel a trickle of it coming from his nose. He doesn’t have much left in him. Napoleon realizes right then and there, he doesn’t think he can take another round. If Rudi pushes that button one more time, Napoleon Solo is a dead man. 

He groans, rolling his head away from Rudi as much as he can as the man looks for all the world like a child on Christmas. It turns his stomach again, mixing bile with the blood in his mouth, and he thinks he might drown in it. Movement outside the door catches his half-closed eye, as the guard outside stumbles and then falls out of view. And then Illya, blessed Peril, steps into view. Rudi is rambling about torture, confirming Solo’s assessment of his reason for all of this, but Napoleon lets himself feel relief for one brief moment. And then the lever clicks. Napoleon flinches violently, like an animal in its final death throes, for that’s exactly what this is. Illya is there, just outside the door, but Napoleon is about to die in front of him. He braces himself, swallowing the blood, before he realizes he shouldn’t have this much time to think. He cracks his eyes open in lightheaded relief when he realizes Rudi’s ancient machine has glitched again. The man himself looks only slightly perturbed, and Solo’s eyes slide back over to Illya. The man puts a finger to his lips, and slowly enters the room as Rudi begins talking. Solo half expects him to simply shoot the man and be done with it, so he’s a little surprised when Illya simply walks up beside Rudi and crosses his arms disapprovingly. Rudi is going star-eyed over the prospect of old-fashioned torture, but Napoleon finds he isn’t scared anymore. Briefly, he recognizes the absurdity of such a trust in the Russian agent, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He lets his eyes fall closed, and he tries to speak calmly through the torn tongue and the blood that’s still there. 

“I never thought I’d say this. I’m actually quite pleased to see you.” 

He’s impressed at how steady and even his voice is, belying the utter agony his entire being is still in. He feels like he’ll never be able to breathe properly ever again, but somehow his voice bears no hitch behind a slight softness. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he can imagine the panicked way Rudi is turning to look at who Solo is talking to. The image of Rudi turning to find a 6’5 glowering Russian man puts a slight smile on his face, but Napoleon can’t quite gather the strength to look and confirm it. And then Illya speaks, and Napoleon thinks he might actually be able to breathe again. 

“You doing okay, Cowboy?”

The nickname alone is almost enough to soothe all of Solo’s tortured nerves. It sends a warmth through him entirely different from the flames he’d felt previously, and it nearly has him choking on tears instead of blood. When did this Russian agent, originally sent to thwart and/or kill him, become someone that Napoleon trusted so implicitly to keep him safe? Surely the news that Gabby had betrayed them should be enough to set off every spy instinct Solo had ever acquired, to tell him that Illya too cannot be trusted, but Solo can’t bring himself to believe it. Illya could have left him. He could have gone after Gabby, written Solo off as a lost cause, but instead he’s here, standing threateningly yet calmly next to the man who’s been torturing him for hours. Calling him a good-natured, ribbing nickname in an effort to calm him. And it’s working. Solo feels like he can breathe a bit more evenly now, and the fire in his nerves has dulled from a blazing bonfire to a simmering cook stove. 

There’s a sudden small yelp, the sound of something being smacked, and then a soft thud, and Solo dredges up just enough strength to crack open one eyelid. Rudi is on the floor, and Illya’s hands are outstretched in a faint imitation of the move he made on that guard in the locker room. Illya looks back up at Solo, and he’s startled to see another small fire burning in the Russian man’s eyes. He’s hiding it well, but Illya is angry, indignant even. For a moment, Solo wonders what for, and then Illya steps over the unconscious man with an almost snarl and a callous half kick, and Solo nearly gasps. 

_ He’s angry  _ for  _ me.  _

Through the haze of pain he’s still swimming in, Napoleon realizes he’s not the only one to find himself so strangely attached, and it amazes him. Both their immediate attachments to and protectiveness towards Gabby is one thing, but this strange attachment and protectiveness towards each other is unprecedented territory, Solo suspects, for both of them. He watches Illya hesitate for just a second, fingers pulling away a small fraction from where they are, outstretched, moments away from reaching for the buckles around his wrists. He can see the way the tall Russian swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing painfully taught, before he finishes the rest of his moment toward Solo’s wrists. Peril unbuckles his wrists so quickly you’d think the metal was burning to the touch. It’s as if Illya is terrified of even going  _ near _ this contraption Solo is currently strapped in. Napoleon doesn’t blame him. He’s not sure how much Peril saw, but if he saw it in action it’s no wonder he’d be hesitant to touch something that was so faulty to begin with. 

Illya seems to gain confidence in each new buckle he unlatches. By the time he’s reached the strap across Solo’s forehead, there’s what Solo probably figures is a now-permanent crease across the handsome Russian’s brow. He smiles softly up at him, and he feels his breath catch just slightly when a muscle clenches painfully in Illya’s jaw. The second the buckle is undone, Illya all but rips Napoleon out of the chair. Startled and still very unsteady, Napoleon nearly topples over, a yelp leaping up unbidden from his throat. Instantly, Illya’s hands are wrapped tightly around his back and bicep, and the sulky agent at least has the decency to look sheepish. 

“Sorry, I did not mean to—” Solo waves him off weakly. He can practically  _ hear _ the way Peril’s teeth clamp shut, and he winces, suddenly remembering the horrible ache in his tongue from a similar motion. He winces, and Illya instantly softens. “Are you okay? You are bleeding,” Illya says softly, ignoring the faint groaning of Rudi starting to stir at their feet. “He said something about pliers. Did he…” Peril, the big softie, trails off uncertainly, eyes glancing briefly at Solo’s mouth. It takes a moment for Napoleon’s exhausted brain to catch up, and he has to stop himself from vigorously shaking his head when it finally clicks. 

“No,” he says carefully, around the blood and the hole in his tongue and the teeth so sore from being clenched so tightly. “No, Peril, I bit my tongue. The coward never actually touched me,” he finishes, throwing a first glance down at Rudi as he stirs. 

“But he  _ did _ hurt you,” Peril clarifies, eyes taking in the blood from his nose, the sweat-covered brow, the pale, clammy skin. Solo manages a brief nod, and it is all Illya needs. He finally turns to acknowledge the now-conscious Rudi, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him roughly into the chair Solo had just been pulled from. Napoleon doesn’t question him. He can’t say he doesn’t want to watch Rudi squirm, so he wordlessly helps Illya strap him into the chair. 

It’s quiet for a minute, the only sounds coming from Rudi being ignored by the two men. Illya tightens the last strap on his side, and Napoleon starts to wonder just how the Russian agent managed to find him. Not that he’s not grateful, but—

“I thought I found all your trackers.”

  
  


“You did. Just not the ones in your shoes.” 

_ Then I didn’t find all of them, Peril, _ Solo wants to point out, but he figures snarking at the man who just saved his life might be in slightly poor taste. As Solo decides on a response that  _ isn’t  _ in poor taste, there’s an awful, familiar  _ click! _ Rudi yelps, and that horrible, horrible current hits Napoleon again through the touch he’s still got on the buckles. Unbound as he is this time, his hand flies away on its own accord, but the jolt still sends his heart into his throat and that terrible fire through his nerves again. He breathes out through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart, and he closes his eyes. 

“Do you mind,” he sighs to Illya, and opens his eyes to see the other man staring at him with the most horrified, wide-eyed expression Napoleon’s ever seen. So Illya  _ hadn’t  _ known what this machine did, and he’d just found out by accidentally hurting the friend he just helped out of it. Rudi starts blabbering then, and Napoleon forces himself to focus back on the mission. He sees Illya try to do the same. Solo’s tongue is still aching, he still feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest and run straight back to America, and he feels like he’ll never be able to get this feeling of liquid fire out of his very veins, but he focuses. 


	2. Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has known Solo was tortured by Rudi, all those months ago in Italy. He’s known it was electrocution, he’s known Napoleon had been in rough shape when he showed up. He’s also known that the man had disabled the intercom buzzer at his apartment, that he has a distaste for driving he never seemed to have before. But he’s never known there was a connection between those three things, until now. He hadn’t known just how close he had been to losing Solo in that basement, had he come just a few seconds later. Until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with panic attacks and ptsd symptoms, so if that bothers you please be careful if you read this.

Illya has known Solo was tortured by Rudi, all those months ago in Italy. He’s known it was electrocution, he’s known Napoleon had been in rough shape when he showed up. He’s also known that the man had disabled the intercom buzzer at his apartment, that he has a distaste for driving he never seemed to have before. But he’s never known there was a connection between those three things, until now. He hadn’t known just how close he had been to losing Solo in that basement, had he come just a few seconds later. Until now. 

They’re on a new mission from Waverly, their first official long-term mission since creating U.N.C.L.E, and Illya had been nervous since they landed in France hours ago. He hadn’t been able to say exactly why when Napoleon had finally had enough of his pacing and asked him what was wrong. Maybe it has something to do with Gaby being in a separate flat across the street, maybe it’s just that this is his first mission as an ex-KGB agent. But he _has_ been nervous. 

After Solo had gotten fed up with his pacing, Illya had migrated over to the open kitchen and started puttering about for something to cook while they waited for Gaby to get settled and join them. With Illya out from under his feet and busying himself with a task, Solo had started to drift off in the armchair he had sunk into after they’d dropped their bags in their rooms. Illya knows it had been exactly 43 minutes later when Gaby rang the buzzer, because he had been watching the clock closely the entire time. He’d nearly finished with dinner, and Solo was still asleep in his chair. The buzzer in this French flat of theirs reminds Illya _now_ of a live wire overhead. And that, he realizes, was exactly the cause of what happened next. 

Solo had jackknifed out of the chair, jolting as if shocked by that invisible electric wire. Illya had watched for a half-second with wide eyes as Solo fell from the chair and hit the floor with nary a sound, before twitching and gasping for breath on the floor. Illya was at his side in an instant. 

“Cowboy. Cowboy!” There was no response, and it was immediately obvious that Solo was still half-asleep. Now, Illya knows what caused this. Then, in that moment, he had no earthly idea. He’d frantically pulled Solo backwards against him, wrapping an arm around the American’s trembling chest and pulling his back tight against his own, even-rising chest. Solo’s jaw was rattling, his teeth clacking painfully against each other, and Illya flashed back to the image of Solo speaking painfully around a mouthful of blood. He quickly wrapped a hand around his jaw, doing his best to hold it shut without hurting Solo any further. For a minute, Illya had thought maybe that was enough, and he would simply coax Solo slowly back to consciousness. And then the buzzer had gone off again. Solo’s eyes flew wide open, but Illya could see they were unseeing. The man’s pupils were blown and they weren’t tracking anything. Solo made a strange wheezing sound as the buzzer went off a third time, jerking his head back so violently he nearly cracked it against Illya’s chin. Illya hated to leave him, but he needed Gaby to stop hitting that damned buzzer. So with a murmured apology in Russian, he’d laid Solo down on his side, sprinted to the intercom, let Gaby in, and all but baseball slid back to Solo’s side. 

Solo was hardly breathing. Illya frantically wedged his own back up against the armchair before pulling Solo against him as he had before. He’d thought back to the last time he’d had Solo in his grip like this, only this time Illya was trying to get Solo to actually breathe instead of trying to _stop_ him breathing. It was a strange juxtaposition, and it furthered the strangeness of their whole relationship. If you had told him a year ago that he would be comforting an American CIA agent through a trauma-induced nightmare on the floor of their willingly shared flat, he probably would have punched you in the face. But there he was, frantically trying to keep Solo from hurting himself and murmuring softly to him in Russian, telling him to _breathe_ , and that everything was okay. 

That’s how Gaby found them when she entered the apartment a few minutes later. She burst through the door with a huff, irritated at how long it took Illya to let her in. It must have been raining, since she was complaining about being wet and shaking water from her hair. Illy ignored her, only glancing up briefly when she let out a startled gasp. She’d looked confused for a moment, and Illya turned his attention back to Napoleon. But Gaby didn’t stay quiet, like he’d hoped she would. Again, he tried to ignore her. He’d only snapped his head up when she asked what was wrong for the third time, accusing Solo of drinking too much. 

“The intercom sounded like electric current. Solo was asleep, and it sent him into some kind of nightmare.” Gaby opened her mouth as if to ask what that had to do with anything, and Illya snapped. “Because your uncle tortured him with electrocution after you betrayed us!” The sound of Gaby’s mouth snapping shut had been audible. Illya regretted the words the second they left his mouth, but he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on that. It was silent for a few more moments, the only sound his nonsensical litany of Russian lullabies he was murmuring to Solo. Illya was startled when Gaby crouched down next to him, the silence broken only by the sound of a slight sniffle. Hesitantly, Gaby reached out and grabbed hold of Solo’s hand. She didn’t say anything else, she simply sat there with him and watched as Illya sang a lullaby his mother used to sing to him back in Russia. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the lullaby, the hand across Solo’s chest that he was absentmindedly soothing in small circles, or simply just Solo’s body deciding it was time to wake up, but a few minutes later Solo’s breathing evened out. The tension in Solo’s jaw relaxed under his fingers, and his pupils slowly contracted. Illya watched the moment the lights turned on inside Solo’s eyes, and his hand flew from his jaw to the pulse point in Solo’s neck. The other man’s pulse was a little fast, but it was steady and much, much slower than it had been before. Carefully, Illya moved his hand to Solo’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. 

“You awake, cowboy?” Solo rolled his head slightly to look up at him, and Illya saw the exhaustion and relief in his eyes. There was a slight nod, and then those eyes closed and Solo practically buried his head against Illya’s neck. Gaby made a small choking sound, and when Illya looked at her sharply he saw she was close to tears. 

Illya was a big man, but Solo was only marginally smaller than him. With Gaby’s help, he carried the now-sleeping agent to his bedroom. Gaby quickly turned the blankets down before helping Illya carefully lower Solo onto the bed. The second she let him go, Gaby rushed from the room. Illya frowned, before turning back to Solo. He carefully pulled the blanket up over his friend, watching him breathe evenly for a moment before a noise had him looking to the doorway. Gaby had grabbed a chair from the kitchen, dragging it into the room and setting it up next to Solo’s bedside. She sat down, carefully slid her hand underneath Solo’s, and held onto it tightly. Illya simply watched her, until Gaby looked up at him with tears in her eyes. 

“I never knew…” she whispered, and Illya wanted to punch himself. “He never said, I didn’t–” her voice broke off with a small sob, and she turned back to Solo. She whispered a broken apology, bringing Solo’s hand up and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Illya stood next to her, pressing a gentle hand onto her shoulder. She leaned her head against his hand the second it touched her, and they stayed like that for a little while. 

  
  
  


Almost an hour has passed since then, and Illya had managed to convince Gaby to eat some of the food he had made for dinner during that time. Now, Illya leaves to make some tea for them both, and to grab a blanket for Gaby since it doesn’t seem like she’ll be leaving Solo’s side any time soon. When he comes back a few minutes later, tea in hand and several blankets thrown over one arm, he’s stopped short by the image that greets him when he walks in the door. Gaby is leant over Solo’s bed, their joined hands pillowed under her head as she sleeps. Illya quietly sets the tea down on the nightstand, carefully wrapping one of the blankets around her shoulders. He picks his own tea back up, watching them softly for another minute before making his way to his own room. It’s early, yes, but Illya is exhausted after the events of the last hour. He’s heard of men, soldiers mostly, having attacks similar to what he just witnessed Solo go through, but he’d never seen it in person until tonight. It had shaken him to the core, and he feels the pull of sleep like never before. He climbs into his bed, leaning back against the headboard and slowly sipping at his tea. He feels the overwhelming urge to still have eyes on Solo, but there is no room for him and he knows he should sleep. He finishes his tea, and he nearly gets up again to go check on Solo. But he tells himself to wait until he gets some sleep, and he slides down under the covers. He’s asleep in minutes, the exhaustion of the day dragging him down into the darkness. 

  
  


He has no idea how long he’s been asleep when he’s jerked to consciousness again. At first he’s not sure what woke him, until he hears what sounds like Gaby crying out. He’s throwing the covers off and racing out of the room in seconds. He flings himself around the doorframe at breakneck speeds, skidding to a halt next to the bed. Gaby is sobbing, nearly hysterical, and Solo is struggling to sit up. He looks like he just woke up, clearly by Gaby’s cries. She’s scrabbling at his hands, sobbing his name over and over again. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! He–he tortured you and it was all my fault!” She breaks into heart wrenching sobs, and Illya realizes. She had a nightmare about Rudi torturing Solo. The look on Solo’s face is one of pure heartbreak, and he wordlessly pulls her onto the bed next to him. She sobs even harder, wrapping herself as tightly around Solo as she can. Illya can only watch as she buries her face into the space between the pillow and Solo’s neck, and he brings a hand up to tangle in her hair. He practically wraps his entire body around her, as if to protect her from some sort of blast, and Illya feels his heart break. 

He must make a small noise, because Solo suddenly looks up. There are tears in his eyes, and he looks so _broken_ that Illya can’t help it. He’s across the room in two long strides, sinking down to sit on the edge of the mattress and wrapping an arm across the both of them. He grabs Solo’s hand, the one not wrapped around the back of Gaby’s head, in his other hand and squeezes firmly. Solo’s eyes slide closed at the touch, and he just exhales sharply before pressing his face against Gaby’s hair. Illya can hear him murmuring softly to her, and Gaby chokes out another sob, but this one almost sounds mixed with a laugh. Solo chuckles briefly, and Illya hears them both sigh audibly. A few moments later, Gaby’s breathing evens out and she falls asleep in Solo’s arms. Illya lets go of Solo’s hand then, and the man almost _whines_ at the lack of contact. Illya’s eyes widen, and he huffs a laugh in disbelief. 

“Do not worry, am not leaving,” he assures him softly, and Solo makes a disgruntled noise. 

“Not worried,” comes the mumbled reply, and Illya freezes, his hand stalled in mid-air above Solo’s head. “You always come for me, Peril,” Solo murmurs, and Illya feels something inside him _crack_. He has to swallow back the lump in his throat before he can respond. 

“Of course, Cowboy,” he says softly, continuing the movement of his hand towards Solo’s hair. The man’s usually coiffed style is damp and messy from sleep and sweat, and Illya gently brushes it away from his face. He keeps carding his fingers through it when the initial touch draws a content keening from Solo, and he smiles softly at him. “I’ll disable the intercom in the morning, yes?” He holds his breath, hoping he hasn’t said the wrong thing, but Solo nods slightly against Gaby’s head. “Good. For now, you sleep. I will not leave,” he continues, and Solo hums softly, burrowing even tighter into Gaby and the blankets. Illya snorts softly, struck by how much the two of them look like kittens wrapped around each other for warmth and comfort. He supposes that makes him the mama cat. He finds he doesn’t mind that. If he can keep them warm and happy like this, then he will accept whatever role.   
  


It’s quiet for a moment, and Illya thinks Solo has fallen asleep again, until–

“The machine glitched out right when you showed up. He pushed the pedal down for what would have been the last time, and I thought you were too late. I watched you outside the door and I heard him push the pedal and I knew I couldn’t take another round. And then it clicked and didn’t work, and I’d never been so happy to see you. But if it hadn’t shorted out... It would have killed me, Peril,” Solo whispers hoarsely, and Illya feels his blood run cold. _The pedal._ He swallows hard, not trusting his own voice.

“The pedal. Is that why...”

“Why I don’t like to drive anymore?” Illya nods, even though Solo can’t see him. But somehow Solo knows anyway. “Yeah, Peril. I try to push the pedals down and I just freeze. I can’t get that horrible sound out of my head.” Solo’s voice shakes a little, and Illya smoothes his fingers across his forehead. 

“Shh, is over now. Someday you will get past this. For now, just sleep, _дорогой друг (dear friend)._ ” Solo nods, leaning into Illya’s touch as his breathing evens out and he joins Gaby in slumber.

  
  


Illya stays like that for the next hour, shushing them both through cries and whimpers, singling Russian lullabies with one hand braced across the two of them as if to shelter them in, the other gently smoothing hair away from faces, soothing out tense shoulders, rubbing a thumb against furrowed brows. He’s not sure when he fell asleep, and he definitely doesn’t remember moving. But he wakes up the next morning leaning back against the headboard, Gaby and Solo both tucked up against him on either side, his hands wrapped around their shoulders. He looks up to see Waverly standing in the doorway, and he’s too delighted by the fact that the buzzer hadn’t caused Solo to have another attack to be embarrassed that his boss is witnessing this. He gives the older man a tired smile, making a soft shushing noise. Waverly gives him a slightly confused look, making his way softly into the room. He reaches the side of the bed, and looks down at them all with crossed arms. 

“When you didn’t answer the intercom I let myself in. Dare I even ask what happened here, Kuryakin?” He stage-whispers, and Illya is grateful for the quiet. 

“Solo had an… attack last night, similar to a soldier with battle fatigue, I imagine. It scared Gaby, and…” Illya gestures vaguely with his chin, and Waverly nods, suddenly grim. 

“I see. From the torture? I take it Gaby wasn’t aware of just what Solo went through at the hands of her uncle until last night?” Illya nearly smiles with how intuitive Waverly is. He’d liked the man instantly, and that doesn’t happen very often for him. He’s infinitely grateful for the man’s sharp insight. He just nods in response, and Waverly sets his jaw. “Do we know what triggered the attack?” Illya nods sharply this time. 

“Yes. The intercom buzzer, it sounds very much like an electrical current. I am pleasantly surprised you did not trigger another one,” he adds, and Waverly looks somewhat horrified that he might have almost sent Solo into another episode. 

“Hmm yes, well. We’d better take care of that, then. I’ll have the maintenance lads disable it somehow. We’ll give Gaby a key.” Illya nods gratefully, and Waverly smiles at them all again. “I’ll just come back in a few hours for the briefing, then. Take care of them, Illya, my boy,” he adds, slipping on his sunglasses and giving Illya a gentle pat on the cheek. Illya watches him go, a slight tilt to his head as he ponders just how he got so lucky to have so many people who care about him and trust him so implicitly. It’s a rarity in his life and line of work, and he’s not quite sure if any of it is real yet. He closes his eyes when he hears the sound of the front door closing, telling himself a few more minutes rest is well deserved. He falls asleep a few minutes later with a smile on his face, and the two people he has grown to care about most in the world tucked under his arms. 


End file.
